


Belts

by ghostofgatsby



Series: Stitch by Stitch [5]
Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Bondage, Impact Play, M/M, Restraints, Spanking, Strapping, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-15 21:03:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13039365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostofgatsby/pseuds/ghostofgatsby
Summary: “I’m sorry,” Smith mumbles, “I know it bothers you when I don’t call to say I’m going to be late…”“I can’t sleep, when you’re gone. It’s weird not having you next to me,” Trott replies.Smith doesn’t know what to say to that. “How can I make it up to you?” he asks instead, brushing his fingers up Trott’s abdomen, “I could do you a favor. Or you could...punish me?” He smirks.Trott glares at him, unimpressed.“What?”“That’s not how that works.”“I know that, but-” Smith squirms closer to him, nuzzling his way into Trott’s embrace. “I could use the reminder, couldn’t I?”





	Belts

**Author's Note:**

> http://crow-bear.tumblr.com/post/150762079352/nevver-let-it-snow-christophe-jacrot
> 
> https://stocksnap.io/photo/V7Q8LG40IW  
> the exterior of Trott’s shop looks something like this
> 
> https://gloimg.rosewholesale.com/ROSE/pdm-product-pic/Clothing/2016/04/20/source-img/20160420141830_30746.jpg?01  
> Trott’s shirt
> 
> cw: use of a belt in impact play. If I need to tag something else, let me know.
> 
> reblog: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2017/12/16/belts-ghostofgatsby/
> 
> also, yes, you can make make-shift cuffs out of a belt. unfortunately, I dunno where the link is to that. somewhere on the internets.

Smith refrains from being quiet when he enters the back room of the shop and hears the rhythmic revving of Trott's old Singer sewing machine. Dammit...he was afraid that he was coming back from a cafe karaoke night too late. But the bus wasn’t running, and Smith didn’t have any quarters to call a cab.

Cold air seeped through his threadbare jeans. He had to trek miles across the city to get back to the apartment, slogging through the snow and slush all the way.

“Trott?” he calls out regretfully, “I’m back…” Smith shudders by the door as he shakes snow from his coat, and toes off his sodden shoes to continue into the workroom proper. He stops at the staircase leading to the apartment and listens to the last needle thud into fabric.

“Go on ahead, Smith. I’ll be upstairs in a minute,” Trott says loudly, pulling fabric away from the sewing machine. His back is turned away, his head down.

Smith’s shoulders hunch at the tired, saddened tone in Trott’s voice, and he does as he says.

 

“You need to look out for yourself more when you’re busking, Smith,” Trott says, quietly pulling back the sheets to let Smith into the bed beside him. Smith wasn’t sure if Trott had been awake the whole time he was showering, or if he’d woken him up when he entered the room. He’d stalled under the warm water a long time, letting the cold unfreeze his limbs, and scrubbing every inch of himself with Trott’s fancy lime body wash.

“I’m sorry,” Smith mumbles, sliding in next to Trott under the covers. He catches his fingers on the hem of Trott’s sleep shirt and holds on. “I know it bothers you when I don’t call to say I’m going to be late…”

“I can’t sleep, when you’re gone. It’s weird not having you next to me,” Trott replies. His face is hidden from view, half-smushed into the pillow. “I was awake trying to finish things, anyway, but...I still worry about you.”

Smith doesn’t know what to say to that. “How can I make it up to you?” he asks instead, brushing his fingers up Trott’s abdomen, “I could do you a favor. Or you could...punish me?” He smirks.

Trott shifts in the pillows to glare at him, unimpressed.

“What?”

“That’s not how that works.” Trott squints his eyes at him in the dark- his glasses are sitting on the side table.

“I know that, but-” Smith squirms closer to him, nuzzling his way into Trott’s embrace. “I could use the reminder, couldn’t I?” He wants to make it up to Trott. He wants whatever they do together to act as a reason- a good motivator- for Smith to make changes. But he doesn’t want to weigh Trott down with the mess that he is.

He knows that Trott can’t fix everything he wants to change about his life. As good as a person Trott is, Smith can’t let himself rely on him fully.

Trott sighs. His breath tickles Smith’s shoulder. “I’m not mad at you, Smith. Or disappointed.”

Smith caresses his hand up and down Trott’s back. He can sense the tension in his muscles, and feels bad for giving Trott another thing to stress about during the week. “Next time, I’ll put a few dollars in a vending machine to get some change. Or ask to borrow someone’s cell before I leave. I’ll get ahold of you somehow, Trott,” he promises. He feels like his words are fickle and meaningless, but he wants to stick to them. He’d make the effort, for Trott. He’d try harder. Sometimes he doesn’t think he tries hard enough, to be better. But he wants to be.

“Those are good plans. We’ll talk about it in the morning, alright?” Trott’s eyes flutter shut again, the lines in his forehead slowly smoothing out.

Smith kisses his cheek. “Okay. Did you finish the suits you were working on?” he asks out of curiosity. Trott had been working on commissions after work when he left to go busking.

“Almost. I have the buttons to do tomorrow. How was your night at the cafe?” Trott asks.

“It was decent. They had a Disney karaoke theme this time,” Smith tells him, “Another guy and I sang ‘Can You Feel The Love Tonight.’”

Trott smiles sleepily. “Was he any good?”

“No, he was horrible.” Smith laughs. “The crowd seemed to like it though.”

“I’ll have to make the next one.”

“Sure.” Smith smiles sadly, knowing Trott doesn’t have the time to leave the shop when he’s swamped with commissions. But the thought was a nice one. He kisses Trott’s cheek again, and settles down to sleep, ideas about serenading Trott with Disney songs floating in his head.

  
  


Smith is waiting on the bed, stripped down to his boxers already, when Trott returns to the bedroom. Trott is carrying an armful of belts in varying widths, reversible black and brown with silver buckles, which he drops beside Smith with a huff.

“There. All the belts I have that were on old mannequins or were factory rejects.” Trott runs a hand through his hair and starts rolling up the sleeves of his button down shirt. The fabric is off-white, with tiny hot-air balloons patterned over it. “Safeword?” he asks.

“Folsom,” Smith replies.

Trott gestures towards him and smiles briefly. “Stand up, and turn around.”

Smith feels the mattress spring back underneath his hands as he pushes himself to his feet and faces the bed. He watches Trott snag a few belts, and hears them drop onto the floor behind him. Then Trott’s hands are on his bare skin.

“Relax for me, sunshine. Your back muscles are tense.” His hands rub along Smith’s shoulders and spine, gently pressing at the tension there that Smith hadn’t noticed.

Smith takes a few deep breaths, rolls his arms and neck around, and tries to do as Trott says. He closes his eyes. Trott’s thumbs massage circles up his spine.

Trott kisses the nape of Smith’s neck. He slides his hands down Smith’s arms, gently pinning them to his sides before maneuvering his wrists behind his back. He leans over and brushes his lips against Smith’s ear. “Keep them there,” he whispers.

Smith makes a small, near-inaudible noise of assent. Behind him, he hears Trott pick up one of the belts off the floor. Trott starts to fasten several belts across Smith’s chest and arms, buckling them in place each time. The metal buckles sound deafening in the room.

Smith’s eyelashes flutter against his cheeks, his eyes still closed. Even though he knows he can open them, part of him feels like he shouldn’t. Trott’s presence is hot against his back, his chest pressed against him, his chin hooked over Smith’s shoulder. Smith can feel the fabric of Trott’s shirt on his fingers where he’s keeping his wrists still.

“Good,” Trott murmurs, kissing Smith’s naked shoulder. His fingers slip under the belts, checking the tightness. “Color? Anything pinching?”

Smith opens his eyes, slowly looking down at himself and the black-brown of the leather belts dark against his skin. “Green. And no.”

Trott pecks kisses across Smith’s shoulders and neck, sliding a hand up into his hair momentarily and running his fingers through it. Smith lets out a low hum in his throat as Trott’s nails scratch his scalp pleasantly. Trott kisses the top of his spine, his teeth scraping wetly across the taut skin.

“Good. Good boy,” he murmurs. He steps away and takes another belt from the pile, shoving the rest onto the floor.

Each inhale strains the belts slightly, compressive around Smith’s chest and torso. The feeling of security settles over his shoulders, making him almost dizzy- but not for lack of oxygen. He knows they make bondage gear out of leather and buckles and that sort of thing, but he’d never worn any before. If it feels anything like this, maybe he can pay Trott to make one out of these leftover belts. He’d better start saving, then...somehow. The hint of those thoughts, of trying to get by, of figuring out how to manage his money, makes his stomach hurt.

Smith hears a buckle jangle behind him for a minute or two and then leather loops are being slipped onto his wrists and tightened into makeshift handcuffs. He takes a deep breath and lets it out again, feeling the leather move with him, holding him together.

“This is new...and, green,” Smith says, twisting his hands slightly to test the give.

Trott chuckles lowly. “How does it feel?”

“Good…safe.” The second word slips out of Smith’s mouth, and his lips twitch slightly. He isn’t sure if safe was the word he would have said aloud. Maybe he meant to say secure. Or soft. But it isn’t untrue. He does feel safe.

Trott’s hands settle on his shoulders, heat sinking through the touch. “Keep your feet on the floor,” he says, and carefully pushes Smith’s torso forward and down until he’s bent over the bed.

Smith guides himself onto the bed, turning his head to the side to not crush his face against the mattress, and squirms the slightest bit to get comfortable.

Trott runs his hands down his back, over the belts. Any remaining tension in Smith’s muscles is gone as he relaxes into the security of the belts and the plush softness of the bed. He rubs his cheek against the sheets, and sighs.

“Stay,” Trott reminds him.

The order is easy to obey. Smith’s mind is starting to drift into that space it goes every time Trott ties him up. Warm and buoyant, like bathwater.

Trott’s hands continue caressing his back, sides, and hips, sliding lower, groping his ass through his boxers. It stirs heat between his legs, the barest simmer of arousal, and Smith leans up into the attention.

Trott’s hand comes down sharp in retaliation. Smith yelps in surprise.

“What, did that really hurt?” Trott spanks him leisurely, treating each cheek equally. He grasps the elastic waistband of Smith’s boxers and drags them down off his hips. Trott’s hand hits harder, after. The next few strikes are sharp and hot, burning across his skin.

Smith couldn’t hold back the small whine. An impatient plea was on the tip of his tongue- for Trott to continue, to really go at it- but Trott stopped, and spoke first.

“This isn’t punishment. We talked about you having plans for when you can’t get home...but I want you to remember this, too. A reminder,” he says. His hand brushes along Smith’s side, caressing skin and over belts.

Smith exhales heavily. The belts feel like they’re weighting him to the bed.

“What do I want to remind you of, Smith?”

It’s hard to clear his throat and speak. “To come home to you?” Smith asks.

Trott’s fingertips still. He says nothing.

“Or, to make sure I always have a way home,” Smith corrects himself quickly.

“You always tell me you know where you’re going,” Trott says quietly, “I need you to remember how to get back, too.”

_ You...want me to come back? _ Smith almost voices the thought, but decides against it. He hears Trott double a belt over and crack it.

“Ready?” Trott takes Smith’s hand and squeezes once.

Smith squeezes back. “Yeah. Green,” he replies.

“Safeword?”

“Folsom...”

Trott lets go. “We’ll do sets of ten. Five and five. I’ll pause in between, and we’ll see how much you can take.” He briefly strokes his hand across Smith’s ass, and the mild soreness lights up. Then the belt starts coming down in routine cracks.

Trott strikes the flesh of Smith’s ass cheeks; the crease where they meet his thighs. The hits tingle sharply across his skin.

Smith bites his lip and breathes into the pain. The heat of it burns through him. Something about that hurt is cathartic. The strikes come steadily, predictably, and a feeling of subservience and relief washes over him. Everything inside him laid bare on the bed. None of these worries fucking matter in this moment. He just needs to remember, and that part is easy when Trott’s close by. When it’s Trott’s belts and word holding him in place. His ass hurts like something else, but it is worth it to feel...to feel wanted.

They get through three sets of ten. Smith loses track after that. Trott might have stopped. He isn’t sure. He’s floaty, and sore. Trott’s gentle touch is everywhere. Distantly, Smith realizes Trott’s removed all the belts, and has put something on Smith’s ass to numb it from smarting so much. Trott’s touch is like burning sparks across his skin where the hits had landed. Everything around him is white noise, and it takes awhile to gradually pull himself out of it.

“Come back, Smith,” Trott’s voice calls in the fog, “Hey. With me, sunshine?”

Smith gives him a weak nod. He opens his eyes, and slowly, the dark bedroom comes into focus. His body gives a cold shudder, and Trott pulls the blanket tighter around him. Smith’s laying on his side, with his head clost to Trott’s lap.

“...Trott?” he murmurs. His fingers weakly reach for him and Trott scoots closer, pressing his body up against his. “Where..you’re too far…”

“I’m right here, Smith. It’s alright. What do you need?” His voice is hushed as his hands caress down Smith’s sides.

“Just...don’t leave,” Smith sighs, nuzzling into Trott’s shoulder.

Trott’s chuckle is distant, but warm. “I’m not going anywhere. Promise.” He kisses Smith’s hair, and Smith closes his eyes again.


End file.
